Stormbreakers
by WrathOfDeadguy
Summary: Two years after the Battle of Knarvon (Cavalier: The Last Patrol), Turanic Raider activity continues to increase across the Hiigaran Exclusion Zone. In this chaotic time, a young corvette gunner joins a newly-formed mercenary squadron after a betrayal by her pilot and superiors drives her into the arms of Kiith Soban. (Infrequent updates)
1. Prologue-Taking the Red

Mera Dur-Sjet hung her head in shame as she took her place at the defendant's podium. No one remarked her sullen pose- it was expected of one in her position.

The shame was not for her own deeds. _I did not fire that shot,_ she thought once more, but spoke not a word of her mind. A final protest of innocence could hardly make a difference now. Not now, after the court-martial had pronounced its verdict- accepted as fact the craven lie that had brought her to this courtroom. Her shame was not for her own deeds, but for the uniform she wore. The formal dress reds that had made her so proud but a few months past now weighed down her shoulders like a burial shroud- the royal blue sash across her breast threatened to smother her. She had been betrayed by everything she thought she stood for.

The battle played over and over in her head. _She sat in the cramped gunner's seat of PEH-221, a Hammer-class heavy corvette named_ Ran Kaalel _, pummeling raider fighters and corvettes with shot after shot in desperate defense of a trade convoy from the Frerrn Aggregate. Behind her sat Lieutenant Commander Salin Kuurin-Sjet, flight lead of the 100_ _th_ _Starborne off the Kiith Sjet carrier_ Jaka-Muir. _Mera let out a victory whoop as she dispatched a Brigand, tearing through the missile corvette's engine housing with a globe of fusion plasma, watching it lose control and spin apart in a thousand different directions at once..._

 _They came about, engines redlined, racing back toward the convoy to intercept the handful of raiders that slipped through their defensive wall. There was one dead ahead, just out of range- a Thief-class ship, belly full of murderous pirates, angling towards one of the transports..._

" _Guns, kill that bastard!"_

 _She had no shot. They were just coming into range, but the enemy was too close to that transport, heading around its far side. If she fired..._

" _Negative! It's no good!"_

" _Engage the enemy, Lieutenant- that's an order!"_

" _Sir, I've got no shot!"_

 _Everything slowed. She tried to slew the guns, seek another target that she could hit- that she could kill. The controls refused her input- a red indicator flashed above her console: Command System Override. Salin! He'd taken control of the guns! The reticule locked; Mera saw the power readings, felt the ship lurch as the massive energy cannons discharged, watched two incandescent orbs streak away..._

 _The enemy corvette disappeared behind the transport, just as she'd known it would._ Ran Kaalel's _ordinance, unthinking and unfeeling, homed in on its target with grim purpose... kept seeking that vanished enemy until the moment both shots impacted the side of the freighter. Two balls of plasma, hotter than the heart of a star, contained only by a magnetic field... they bored deep into the unarmored civilian vessel to detonate in its heart._

 _Hull plating shattered; structural members twisted and sheared. The alien ship split in two, its fore section spinning lazily away, aft accelerating into the dark between the stars, out of control..._

 _A long, horrible silence filled the cockpit of the_ Ran Kaalel _. The enemy corvette, denied its prize, spun back toward the Kushan craft that had killed what it was meant to defend... spun, and fired. Railgun slugs flew past, bracketing them, spread but tightening with every volley. The Override light still flashed above Mera's console._

" _Sir!"_

 _The guns were silent, their course straight and steady._

" _Sir!_ Salin! _We have to-"_

 _The ship heaved beneath her as the enemy's weapons finally found their mark. Warnings blazed across her status displays, but the Hammer-class were tough birds- legendary for their thick armor, oversized turrets, and "novaburst" shells that could shred an entire formation of fighters with one volley... which made no difference at all if the man controlling them wouldn't let her return fire. Mera slammed a fist into the arm of her chair as another impact, then another rocked their little ship. Still, Salin didn't fire. Didn't maneuver. Some part of Mera's consciousness knew what was happening- his mind had gone, shut down, refused to accept the horrible truth of what he'd just done. And now it was going to get them both killed._

 _System after system flashed red and went dark. Mera tried again and again to regain control of at least the guns, but he'd locked her out and she didn't know his codes. There was one thing- only one- that she could still do: she whispered a prayer to the Martyrs of Kharak and yanked the ejection handle._

She saved her commanding officer's life when he'd frozen in shock, and he'd repaid her by accusing _her_ of firing the fatal shot that killed twelve innocent people. The _Ran Kaalel's_ data recorder was destroyed when an enemy shell struck the ejected cockpit pod- there was no evidence to prove what truly happened that day. She had only the truth- small comfort against the word of a senior officer whose combat record stretched back two decades. Easier for the Admiralty to believe that a barely-tested junior-grade Lieutenant, having seen only two battles in her short career, having had two ships shot from under her, had made the mistake.

And now they sat in judgment over her, wearing the same impeccably-kept scarlet jackets, same royal blue sashes... same circle-in-circle crest upon their shoulders. A crest that had meant so much to her once- which had been worn by the most ancient of thinkers and dreamers, by the scientists who'd charted the stars from the sands of the Great Desert, by the courageous young woman who'd defied an empire to save their very species from extinction and deliver them safely home...

It came to nothing. It was but a symbol. _Symbols only have worth so long as those who bear them remember._ Those were the words of a friend- a shipmate in better times, and in worse. A brother, as she had come to realize. Someone who would never have betrayed her as one of her own had done. Neither of her shipmates aboard the _Daalis Manaan_ would have betrayed her, she knew- her old captain, Kalan Luus-Naabal, gave his life for her and for the rest of her squadron, taking their crippled, disarmed ship on a suicidal charge to give their reinforcements the targeting data they needed. He hadn't been alone. Pherd had been with him. Pherd _Soban._ Fitting that his words should come to her now.

She remembered those long patrols through the star-filled skies around a dim star called Knarvon- the conversations she'd had with Pherd and Kalan when their little Cavalier's entertainment unit wasn't working, as was so often the case on those temperamental old ships. She remembered asking Pherd about the Sobani- about how he'd come to deny Kiith and kin to join the Grey Brotherhood. A family tens of thousands strong, loyal to an idea- loyal to _each other._

It was in the darkness of her cell, the night before the verdict, that her decision was made. It was not a difficult one. Not a Sjeti voice rose for her- not even her brother's. He hadn't even shown up for the trial. Faced with such betrayal,there was one thing- _only one-_ that she could still do.

Admiral Ghiir-Sjet rose from his seat.

"Lieutenant Junior Mera Dur-Sjet," he said in his low, rumbling tone, "you have been found guilty of the charges brought against you. It is the judgment of this court-martial that you are not fit to serve."

Mera's head rose. For the first time, her eyes met those of her accusers, of the Admirals, of the audience in the court... she was neither broken nor ashamed. She met them with steel and fire, defiant and proud, jaw set and fists clenched.

"On this date, Landsday, the Fifth of the month of Sand, in the thirty-third year after our Landfall on Hiigara, you are hereby dishonorably discharged- stripped of rank and decoration, and of the uniform you have disgraced."

The MPs flanking her approached, but halted when Mera's hand whipped up, formed in the most ancient sign- made for the most sacred oaths a Kushan could give. It was the sign that Ifriit Tambuur-Sa made when he swore Pauura upon the Taiidani Imperium upon learning that his Kiith had been slaughtered while he slept. The sign that Mevath Sagald made when she presented the Guidestone in Tiir. The sign that Karan Sjet had made when she inaugurated the New Diamid in Asaam Kiith'Sid.

Mera stepped away from the podium, hand still raised, and turned to face the prosecutor's bench. Her cold gaze settled on her accuser- her commander, her betrayer. She leveled a finger at him with her other hand.

"Salin Kuurin-Sjet," she said, her voice pitched to reach the entire hall, "you have laid your own crimes at my feet. I name you traitor, and coward, and liar!" His face flushed red, but she was finished with him- now and forever. She turned back toward the Admirals as he sputtered and cursed behind her. She saw that she had their full attention- Admiral Ghiir-Sjet stood with his arms crossed, brow furrowed, attempting but not quite succeeding to appear as though he had expected her outburst. Mera's face twisted in rage- he was worse than Salin. This man had not even been willing to hear the witnesses she'd called to defend herself, claiming that because they testified only to her character and not to the events in question that their words meant nothing. _Let him hear these words now, and may he choke on them!_ She swung her finger to point at him now, and in spite of his stern facade his eyes widened.

"You! You who have sat in judgment, hearing the truth but believing the lie, I name you _fool._ "

"You have only yourself to blame!" He cried, indignant. "Do you now refuse to face justice?"

"On the blood of my ancestors, I did _not_ fire that shot. I will find no _justice_ in this court!" she spat back at him, then turned to the gallery and took a deep breath and bellowed to the heavens: "I will find no justice in this _Kiith!_ "

On cue, six figures rose in the gallery. All wore impeccably-tailored charcoal grey uniforms with blood red sashes; the hilts of their sabres glistened on their hips. There could be no mistaking who they were- and now there could be no mistaking why they were here. Mera turned once again to face the Admirals as a collective gasp swept through the hall.

"I deny you," she intoned, using the ancient words, "I cast myself from you as a grain of sand upon the desert wind." There were easier ways. There were calmer words. Not everyone invoked the denial as had the First- it was an oath born of a fury second only to the vengeance of Pauura. The silence in the hall could have collapsed a star. The six grey-clad men and women descended from the gallery and filtered through the crowd, stepping over the cordon and shouldering past the MPs to stand three abreast on Mera's left and right.

"The crest I have worn festers on my shoulder," she continued, and as she said this her hand covered the Sjeti circles- and savagely tore them from her tunic. The patch fluttered to the tile floor, where she ground it beneath her foot- eyes never once leaving the Admirals' bench. Their faces were now a mixture of disbelief and horror; Ghiir-Sjet's jaw hung slack.

"The colors I have worn blacken my soul." She seized her royal blue sash with both hands and rent it apart, letting it fall in dangling tatters to hang from her belt. She tore open the flap of her tunic, sending its row of polished brass buttons skittering and clattering across the floor, and shrugged the past from her body with calculated contempt. Now clad only in her trousers and undershirt, she faced the court with a dignity that no uniform could have given her.

"There is no Kiith but that of the Spirit," she shouted with pride, at last, swelling back into her heart. "No family but those who are chosen!"

"As we now choose you," finished the tall, grey-clad woman beside her. She, too, wore an Admiral's insignia. She unfolded a small package from under her arm- it was a blood-red sash like her own, which she now laid over Mera's shoulder with the care of a parent for a child. "We name you _Soban_ , and welcome you- as our sister." She raised her ashen-haired and deeply wrinkled head to lock eyes with the Sjeti admirals behind the bench. "Who would deny this?" There was no answer. There could _be_ no answer. They knew who stood before them now- a veteran of the Exodus. A legend beyond reproach. The ashen-haired Admiral turned to Mera.

"Do you maintain your innocence of the charges laid against you?"

"I do."

The Admiral nodded. It was but a formality- all this had been decided days ago, the first time they'd met, when she and the Admiral and these five others beside her had chosen how to proceed. Two of them were from the 100th- Sobani officers on detached duty. They had testified to her version of events, based on their own observations of her behavior before and after the battle. Two were veterans, as she was, of the Battle of Knarvon. The last, Commander Hevaq Soban, had taken his oath on the same day as Pherd Soban, her friend and shipmate... and now her brother, in fact as well as in spirit. She imagined him smiling in approval from across the card table where she'd so often defeated him and the Skipper on their long patrols around that dim star, less than a year in the past but already a lifetime away.

"The Grey Brotherhood stands with its Sister," declared the Admiral. "She will leave in our company-" her hand came to rest on the hilt of her sabre- "or none of our company shall leave."

Waves of conflicting emotions flashed over Ghiir-Sjet's face. He was in an impossible position, and he knew it- Sjet and Soban had long been the closest of allies, but if he attempted to detain Mera, the Sobani officers who'd come to her aid would die rather than let her be taken. The security forces in the hall were probably enough to defeat half a dozen Sobani... _probably._ But the political fallout would be severe. The only thing fiercer than Sobani loyalty was Sobani vengeance- and there had not been overt violence between the clans since before Kharak burned.

"The Aggregate will demand answers," Ghiir-Sjet pleaded. "Justice must be done!"

"Then _let_ it be done," said the Admiral, whose bony finger indicated Salin where he still sat, red-faced, beside the prosecutor. On the final word, she turned on her heel. The other Sobani circled Mera, protecting her as they marched slowly, deliberately, down the aisle and out of the Hall of Justice. Mera looked down at the blood-red sash draped across her breast, and for the first time in weeks, beneath haunted eyes, sunken and dark from exhaustion, she smiled.


	2. Chapter 1

**STORMBREAKERS**

by Ion_Fury

On the Seventh day of the month of Exodus, eight months after she severed her ties and joined the Grey Brotherhood, Mera Soban received the call she'd been waiting for. She pulled on her duty greys, and admired herself in the mirror for several proud minutes before leaving her quarters. It was a long walk from the habitat module to the hangars; since her squadron had only just been formed, they did not require convenient accommodations. They had no ships to scramble if the shipyard went on alert.

Well, they'd had no ships _yesterday._ Only fifteen minutes ago Mera had received a call from her pilot-to-be requesting her presence in the squadron assembly hangar within the hour. Since the 131st Escort Squadron had not been assigned a hangar yesterday, either, there was really only one conclusion Mera could draw from the order. Naturally, she'd been out of her bunk, washed, and dressed in a matter of minutes. It would still take about twenty minutes to walk from one end of the station to the other—she'd elected to avoid the tram on the off-chance that showing up too early might leave a bad impression—but that was fine. She needed the exercise to finish waking up, and the view from the promenade deck was incredible.

The Hiigaran Defense Command shipyard _Forge of Jakuul_ floated in low orbit over the Angel Moon, barely fifty miles from the barren lunar surface, and at certain hours it was possible to catch sight of Hiigara herself rising above the horizon—there were few aboard who would pass up the opportunity to contemplate that vision if their duties permitted them to see it. Mera had plenty of time to spare.

There were still ten minutes to go when she boarded the lift that served as access from the promenade to the upper hangars where newly-built strike craft awaited crew and final inspection before deploying to their assigned duties.

Mera was not surprised to find her pilot waiting for her inside. She saluted and flashed a big smile—Commander Hevaq Soban had been her sponsor into Kiith Soban, and had requested her for the 131st when the squadron formed. Since then, he'd also become a good friend. They had picked their crew from the squadron's ratings... and now they were on the way to see their ship. A little tingle ran up Mera's spine. As the first crew of a new corvette, theirs would be the honor of giving the little ship a name. She'd never participated in a naming ceremony before—and as the corvette's executive officer, it was her duty to consecrate the name with blood and wine.

"Nervous, lieutenant?"

Mera shook her head, but her face must have betrayed her because Hevaq began to chuckle beside her. The realization flushed her cheeks, which transformed his chuckle into a belly laugh.

"How's the unit shaping up, sir?" she asked to change the subject before she could embarrass herself further. Hevaq passed her a thick folder with his finger tucked under one of the pages within—Mera flipped it open to the indicated file and whistled. These were the latest performance evaluations from the simulators, and the numbers were looking very good indeed. Team Two, hers and Hevaq's crew, was ranked third, edged out by Team Four and Team One. None of the others looked problematic—there had been a few rough edges early on, but once the Captain shuffled a few names around on the roster the resulting crews seemed to work well together.

"When we're assembled and deployed we'll be the first mercenary corvette unit in almost twenty years," he remarked offhand. "I believe we'll do right by our heritage, Mera."

The lift slowed, then eased to a gentle stop as they reached the hangar level. There was little activity on the concourse at this time of night, but the handful of techs still on duty saluted as Mera and the Commander strode past. Two ratings stood guard outside the 131st squadron assembly hangar.

"We just took delivery this morning. Last run of the model before everything goes over to the Mark Twos. Holotanks, energy cannons, all the trimmings."

"When will we name them, sir?"

"The Captain and I have the ceremony pencilled in for Quarday—that'll give us time to see everything put in order before we've got to fly 'em. Soon as we've looked over the ships, I'll pitch it to the Skipper."

"I'm not superstitious, sir, but Quarday? Is that wise?" They were, of course, somewhat pressed for time, but the naming ceremony was an important tradition to corvette crews... and holding it on the day named for Quaar-Jet—the God of Pain—might give their newly-forged squadron an inauspicious start. Or so it might be thought. Appearances were important.

"Not to worry, Lieutenant. We'll observe all the rites—nobody wants to start things off on the wrong foot."

Mera nodded and then held her hand out for the palm-scanner by the airlock. It was wrong to fly in a ship with no name. Crews that did so had a way of ending up badly—and whether that was owed to the gods or to pure dumb luck was the business of priests and philosophers. All Mera cared to say on the subject was that she'd resign her commission before serving on a corvette that had not been given its birthright of identification. The personnel hatch whined open; they stepped through and the lock cycled.

The hangar beyond was dark; the only light within came from the hazard strips on the deck. Mera stared until her eyes adjusted, and the shapes of their corvettes slowly emerged from the gloom. The Commander flipped on the maintenance lights and suddenly all twelve ships sprang into full relief, their charcoal-and-crimson hulls gleaming. They were still incomplete by any reasonable standard, lacking their crews—and, more importantly, their names—but already they looked the part of fighting ships, their potential merely dormant and awaiting the proper spark.

"There she is," said the Commander, motioning to the fourth ship in line. "Our bird."

Mera half-ran to the ship where it rested in its cradle. Her eyes instantly fixed upon the corvette's bow, and the hull number stenciled there: PEG-318. Every detail of the brand-new Tempest's appearance she committed instantly to memory, then realized that she was grinning like an idiot and stood to attention. The Commander stopped beside her and turned on his heel, his expression suddenly deadly serious.

He palmed her a scrap of paper. She raised it—written along the fold was a name. _Juna Riif._ The pilot who'd flown the very first Tempest-class corvette, the _Rei Magann,_ into battle in the Great Nebula—and who'd sacrificed her ship, her crew, and her life to save the Kushan fleet's research vessel. A fine name for a warship. A fine spirit to watch over her crew. It was, of course, bad luck to utter the name before it was stenciled on the hull and duly consecrated, but she felt a swell of pride in knowing that her ship already had a heritage, and perhaps even a soul.

"Well, Lieutenant?"

"She's a fine ship, sir!"

"Very fine, Lieutenant. With a fine crew."

" _Very_ fine, sir!"

"The best in the fleet, Lieutenant."

" _In the fleet,_ sir!"

He clapped her on the back and chuckled. The assignment was, of course, still informal. The corvettes wouldn't officially be crewed—or named—until the ceremony on Quarday, but Hevaq seemed to have a soft spot for this one in particular, and Mera saw no reason to contest his judgment.

* * *

Mera cast her helmet off and slicked back her hair, quickly re-establishing her practiced calm so that by the time her two gunners reviewed their session data and ended the simulation, she was ready and waiting to confront them.

"It's a bit different, isn't it?" Understatement of the year—Gunner's Mate Bara, who was fresh off her training deployment, had a talent for that. She'd be solid in combat, that was for sure: things that drove anyone else to screaming madness tended to barely even get under Bara's skin. That kind of unshakeable cool would serve her well some day.

"Usually is the first time," Mera replied just as levelly. Computers couldn't predict the kinds of wild maneuvers a desperate pilot might make to evade the incandescent death homing in on her fighter. That was what force-on-force training was for, and the aggressor pilots had made her crew look like amateurs. That was partly HDC's fault for stacking the training squadrons with older, railgun-armed corvettes... and partly _also_ HDC's fault for diverting production lines to fighter and capital ship orders, which left active-duty squadrons in constant need of the modernized craft their crews _should_ have been trained to operate before their first deployments.

Gunner's Mate Telas echoed Mera's own thoughts on the subject, grunting in disgust and heaving his helmet across the simulation bay. She skewered him with a reproving glare; he stood to attention and she let a little bit of sympathy bleed through.

"Look, spacer, don't take it hard. You're not the only one who has trouble leading targets the first time out."

That was supposed to be reassuring, but it felt empty as it passed her lips. Mera had nailed her proficiencies and blown through several gunnery records at the Academy. Her work aboard the railgun-armed _Daalis Manaan_ had been no different; in every exercise she'd been the best gunner in the squadron. She'd put that to the ultimate test in combat and not been found wanting. She'd made the transition to energy cannons aboard the _Ran Kaalel_ with little difficulty... and since she had become something of a minor celebrity for her courtroom theatrics, _everyone_ in the 131st had their eyes on her and her crew. They'd seen her in action, if only in a simulator, and they knew exactly how good she was... and made her all too well aware of how much harder everyone else had worked to develop the skills that she'd taken for granted.

"Give me a railgun and I'd put that smug bastard down hard, LT. I swear I would." Telas was far more easily frustrated than Bara. He was trying his best, and to be perfectly fair he was easily head and shoulders above half of the squadron's gunners... but the more he missed, the more frustrated he got, and the more frustrated he got, the more he missed. Mera made a mental note to put him on the port side of the ship—Hevaq tended to maneuver to the starboard, and she wanted her best set of eyes—Bara's—leading in a turning fight.

"I believe you" she told the flustered gunner with complete sincerity. "Unfortunately, we haven't got any railguns. Every ship in this squadron is running the Mk20 ERG. Your training is good, don't get me wrong... it'd be good enough against your average pirate."

"That's not comforting."

"It shouldn't be. There's a trick to energy cannons, Telas, and if you'd been with a modernized unit before this you'd know it already. Let me show you."

Mera dropped back into the sim pod and called up a scenario, projecting it on the main display for her crew to see. The unmistakable shape of a Taiidan triikor interceptor blazed across the feed and her turret slewed around after it. The pipper tracked across the fighter, then ahead of it as if were the weapon a railgun... then kept going. Mera didn't stop until the fast little ship was all the way at the edge of the visual pickup, then suddenly dropped her point of aim several degrees. The fighter began to roll; she fired the very instant the simulated enemy was committed to the maneuver. The agile triikor spun around its asymmetrically-mounted main weapon, a signature move of its most elite pilots, known as "rolling the gun"—and when it came out of the roll, it caught a globe of plasma right on the nose. The simulation froze.

"It's a slower projectile—yes, it'll home in on your target," she explained, "but if you try to shove it up his thruster wash then you've given him too much time to react. You've got to lead it like a railgun... but you've also got to compensate for the projectile's homing ability. The upshot is that when your target tries to get cute like that guy did, the orb will smooth out the shot for you—same thing when we're maneuvering. Just focus on getting the shot way out in front of him. That way, it closes the distance almost as fast as a railgun slug would, and it'll auger in right down his throat before he's got a chance to dodge it."

"I'll try to keep that in mind next time, ma'am."

"Another thing—for you too, Bara—don't use the computer as a crutch."

"Ma'am?"

"The TCIC is a good system, don't get me wrong—it'll nail its target six times out of ten. That's very damned good; a veteran gunner aiming by hand can usually only manage thirty, maybe thirty-five percent... but _you_ have something the computer doesn't."

"Intuition," Bara interjected. Mera nodded.

"Exactly. The computer calculates probabilities, so it can anticipate any by-the-book maneuver... but no pilot flies perfectly all the time. If the computer sees its target jink right three times in a row, it'll assume that next time the enemy will do the same thing and aim accordingly. But... sometimes you have to listen to your gut, not the probability model. Intuition tells you when that fourth maneuver will be to the left, not the right. When you get a feeling like that, _listen to it._ Sometimes you'll be wrong, but you'll be right often enough that you'll bring the total hit percentage of your station up to seventy, maybe seventy-five percent... or more."

The junior gunners exchanged a knowing look, and Mera's well-tuned gambling senses detected a wager in the making. So much the better—a little competition might be just the thing these two needed. She cleared her throat to put their attention back on matters at hand.

"Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," echoed two voices, but Bara cocked her head over as Mera began to turn away.

"Ma'am?"

"Speak freely, spacer."

"What's _your_ hit percentage?"

The question wasn't surprising—Mera answered it with a smile. She wanted to say that she didn't keep track, but that would have been an outright lie, and it'd be easy enough to calculate from the total crew scores in simulation. She'd been competing with other gunners and with herself—ultimately, mostly with herself—ever since basic training. The number Bara was asking for was... high. Mera was very proud of it, but she was also afraid that telling her crew directly might intimidate them; if she let them figure it out on their own, it might encourage them instead. Give them a goal that they could shoot for and, maybe, surpass.

"Carry on, _three-one-eight,_ " she ordered, using their newly assigned ship's hull number but pointedly avoiding the corvette's not-yet-official name. Still, she noticed a grin on Bara's face as they got ready for another sim—the junior gunners hadn't even seen their ship yet, but they already took pride in it. That was a good sign. Damned good. Mera shook her head, smiled, and donned her helmet again, queuing up another exercise. These two would get the hang of it yet.

It was more than a little unnerving to suddenly be at the head of a department, albeit one consisting of only three people including herself. On the _Daalis Manaan_ , there had been only a single gun and therefore only a single gunner. _Ran Kaalel_ had only two stations, period, equipped with all manner of redundant systems and interfaces for her dual heavy cannons. PEG-318, soon to be named _Juna Riif,_ boasted six independent turrets, divided into pairs which were in turn managed by each of three gunners: one for the starboard turrets, one for the port, and one for the forward guns. All six guns were normally under computer control; the gunners' task was to manage them, only to interfere when necessary (which in Mera's experience was more often than "the book" claimed), or in the event that battle damage or an equipment failure cut a turret off from its automated targeting system. That provided Tempest-class ships with layers of redundancy; not only could the crew keep their ship in the fight in spite of horrific damage, but the ship could fight on even if most of its _crew_ were to be incapacitated... or killed.

Strange, too, was the sensation of being anybody's superior officer. It was an expected result, of course—the 308th had been unusual in assigning corvette crews comprised entirely of officers, but there was a purpose behind that policy. For years, HDC had used border patrol squadrons like the 308th to give freshly-minted officers a taste of how corvettes in the field operated before sending them off to their first proper assignments. Each Cavalier of the 308th, except the squadron leader's ship, was crewed by a pair of young officers overseen by a veteran. The copilot, who was also the flight engineer, would eventually take over as the commander or engineer of another corvette; the gunner would go on to serve as chief weapons officer of their next ship.

It was hard to know to a certainty what she was supposed to do with the pair of gunner's mates who had just become her responsibility. She'd never truly envisioned herself in such a role... but it was, after all, what she signed on for. With the Cavaliers retired, the only other ships in the fleet's inventory that carried only a single gunner were the Hammer-class heavies and the Mercy-class SAR birds... and Tempests like the 131st had been assigned to made up nearly half of the Navy's corvette strength. She was the gunnery officer of a brand new ship with a brand new crew, which meant that Mera could only be certain of herself... _and also Hevaq_ , she reminded herself. She might not have flown for real with her pilot yet, but he had a service record as long as her leg, and a reputation that spoke well of him as a superior officer.

Not for the first time, she wished she could ask Kalan what to do—the Skipper of the _Daalis Manaan_ had never seemed unsure of himself in the brief but informative time she'd spent as his gunner. With the Skipper and the _Dolly_ as just so much dust and memory orbiting the cold mass of Knarvon II-c, it was unlikely she would ever get an answer. She'd just have to look inward for guidance. That was what really worried her most. That her guidance would not be good enough. That it would be her fault, and no one else's if something happened to these kids.

 _When did they become kids?_ She wasn't that much older than Telas, and Bara was actually older than both of them. She was senior to them because an accident of fate had turned her training deployment into a combat assignment... and although she'd acquitted herself well in gunnery, there was a little nagging doubt in the back of her mind that having had two ships shot out from under her spoke ill of something about her. That her two charges might be hurt, or killed, because of whatever shadow was following her career.

 _Don't be ridiculous,_ she tried to tell herself. _There was nothing you could have done for Kalan and Pherd, not with the gun disabled. And you did everything you could for Salin—he nearly got you both killed, and you saved his skin._ If she went through the facts often enough, it was almost convincing.

The day ended on a high note for the gun crew of PEG-318—Bara and Telas had brought up their hit ratios by four whole percentage points, so Mera cut them loose early and racked out. They'd be ready. By the time the 131st got its first assignment, _her_ kids would be ready. The simulations played over and over in Mera's head... but always, always they brought her back to the _Ran Kaalel._ To the _Daalis Manaan._ To dead friends and betrayals.

 _This time will be different. I am Sobani now. I will not fail my crew, and my crew will not fail me—on the honor of my dead, I swear._


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 02

Quarday arrived without major incident—which might have set Mera at ease had the rest of the week not passed without so much as a hiccup. It left her wary, always checking over her shoulder for some last-minute crisis that would ruin everything. But the crisis never came, and precisely on schedule the 131st assembled in the hangar with their new corvettes and prepared to give them their names.

A reverent silence descended as the crews took their places: enlisted personnel facing their ships; officers facing their subordinates. Mera and Hevaq stood in the shadow of their corvette's bow, atop the partially-lowered service gantry and within arm's reach of the polished transplas of the cockpit window. Their four shipmates stood below, smartly at attention: Gunner's Mate Bara Soban, Gunner's Mate Telas Soban, Chief Petty Officer Nalgaj Soban, their chief engineer, and Engineer's Mate Alud Soban. All were resplendent in their dress greys, boots polished to a mirror shine, blood-red sashes trim and perfect.

Mera glanced up and down the hangar—the viewing gallery was filling fast as personnel from around the station stopped in to witness the Naming of Kiith Soban's newest squadron. There was a lot of brass in that crowd. Mera recalled what Hevaq had told her: _"we'll be the first mercenary corvette unit in almost twenty years."_ The word had clearly gotten around. _No pressure,_ she thought with a smirk that elicited a sideways glance and a raised eyebrow from her pilot. She stilled her expression quickly.

"Admiral Pruetta is up there," Hevaq whispered. Mera felt her spine stiffen—Pruetta was a living legend, an officer even before there'd been a Navy. She'd fought Gaalsien terrorists attempting to sabotage the Mothership's launch, which near as anybody could tell made her the last officer who'd ever ordered Kushan to fire on other Kushan—the Kadeshi notwithstanding. She'd sortied in defense of the Sleepers, and she'd commanded the very first capital ship squadron of the nascent Kushan Fleet from the bridge of the assault frigate _Vengeance._ Although she'd been forced to retire from front-line duty some years ago, she still took an active role in Kiith Soban's military operations... and it fell to her to stand in defense of anyone who might Invoke the Denial against their birth Kiith. As Mera had.

"We'd better get this right then."

When the Mothership made her first, fateful jump away from Kharak, corvettes had been the largest combat ships in the fleet. They'd received names upon construction, assigned by the Admiralty. Although quickly supplanted by frigates as the strong arm of the Fleet's offensive punch, the small size of the Fleet and the desperate situation the Kushan found themselves in necessitated their reliance on a well-rounded corvette force. Throughout the Homeworld War, corvettes formed the backbone of the Fleet's defense... but when the war was won, when Hiigara's children finally found their long-lost home, changes swept through the once-nomadic Fleet. Carriers were the new paradigm, and each one fielded as many as four squadrons of corvettes—which were no longer regarded as true warships. Hiigaran Defense Command passed down the Reclassification Directive two years after Landfall, and no corvette built afterwards received an official name.

Corvette crews were unwilling to accept the change. One particularly defiant crew, a pair of young officers whose ship, the _Asuura Gaalsien_ , had been damaged beyond repair and replaced by a nameless hull numbered PEH-134, took matters into their own hands and stenciled their old ship's name on the new ship's hull—thus was a tradition born. At first, HDC attempted to do away with the increasingly formalized ritual naming ceremonies, but in time, increased morale convinced even the most stubborn of the bureaucrats to let the practice continue. Rather than returning to a policy of giving corvettes official names, however, it was decided that the squadrons and crews would be allowed to go on selecting their own. It was argued, convincingly, that the sense of camaraderie instilled by the Naming was too great in value to dismiss.

"Atten- _tion!_ " bellowed a voice from down the end of the bay, a deep and penetrating roar that could only have come from the guts of a Master Chief. Everyone present, even those in the gallery, was rigid as a steel beam before the call had time to echo. "Captain on deck!"

A procession entered from the maintenance bay, led by the squadron's commanding officer, Captain Durin Soban, a battle-scarred, bald-headed man who wore a perpetual scowl. He mounted the stage with his staff in tow and assumed the podium, unfolding a small slip of paper and leaning close to the microphone.

"To the Officers and Crew of the One-Hundred and Thirty-First Escort Squadron: You are hereby directed to take delivery of twelve Tempest Mark One Patrol Escort Gunships on this date, the Tenth of the month of Exodus, in the Thirty-Third year after Landfall on Hiigara, and place them into active service under the Second External Operations Division. Signed and Sworn, Admiral Pruetta Soban for Kiith Soban High Command."

The Captain re-folded the paper and tucked it into his breast pocket, then clasped his hands tightly behind his back and slowly trained his gaze on each crew and ship in turn.

"There is one matter yet that demands our immediate attention. This is a matter of grave and terrible import, and it must be addressed before we board these fine ships and fly them into the Void for our Kiith, perhaps never to return." The Captain turned to the Master Chief and solemnly saluted the scroll held in the mountainous NCO's giant hands. "Is the List prepared, Master Chief?"

"The List is prepared, Captain!" He presented the scroll to the skipper as though it were a young child, saluting in turn as it left his care. The Captain then turned back to the Line and gently unfurled the document.

"The most ancient stories tell us of our ancestors, who sailed across the sands of the Great Desert in ships of canvas and wood."

"No Captain would sail the Desert in a ship without a name!" declared the squadron's officers with one voice.

"Without a name, no crew would board her!" answered the enlisted in perfect unison.

"Tragedy beyond compare befell our people when we reached into the Heavens! Faced with annihilation, the first Corvette crews flew gallantly into battle to save their sleeping kin!"

"Proudly we remember their names!" shouted the squadron in reply.

"When we found our Home again, these tireless guardians were forgotten. Instead of dignity, they were given anonymity! And so, it falls to _us_ to carry on their legacy. Who now will stand, and restore to these proud Warships what has been denied to them?"

The Master Chief again stepped to the fore, sucking in a massive breath and sending each ship's hull number echoing through the cavernous space as though by sheer force of will.

" _Three Zero Four!"_ As he belted out the number, the first vessel's gunner stepped forward. It was always the junior officer of a crew who had the honor of the Naming—the first voice to speak the name aloud.

"I, Faris Soban, stand for this ship!"

"What is her name?" demanded the Captain. The name of the ship had to match the name on the List—every new corvette's name was checked against a fleetwide registry, ensuring that no two ships ever bore the same name at the same time. Some names were retired forever after a corvette's destruction, to honor the ship and her slain crew; so it had been with the _Daalis Manaan_. The name read by a new ship's junior officer had to match the name on the List—once, and only once, an Ensign of Kiith LiirHra had read the wrong name. No one had ever flown with the man again; he'd resigned in disgrace.

"I name this ship _Shar Paktu!_ "

The Captain made a mark on the Scroll, and the young Lieutenant who'd spoken broke across the corvette's nose a bottle of red wine.

" _Three One Five!"_

"I, Haraka Soban, stand for this ship!"

"What is her name?"

"I name this ship _Hevan Sagald!"_ A fine vintage Jandur consecrated this ship. Each member of a new corvette's crew traditionally offered up their best bottle, selecting one above the others to be sacrificed (and gleefully consuming the rest after the ceremony). The rarer the bottle, the greater the honor bestowed upon the new ship and her crew. The young Ensign who'd named her ship turned around grinning ear to ear; that bottle had cost her half a year's pay.

And then it was Mera's turn. Her skin prickled with anticipation.

" _Three One Eight!"_

She stepped forward, full of purpose. Once, in what seemed another life, she'd witnessed a Naming as a young girl, dirty and hungry, fresh off a rescue ship no more than a week after her parents died. With the Beast War raging all around them, a newly-formed squadron very much like this one had stood and honored their ships...

"I, Mera Soban, stand for this ship!"

"What is her name?" the question drew water from depths the Captain could not have guessed at. _Her naming is my naming,_ she thought, and in a way that was true. Like her, this ship was to be changed by a name. It would transform from a cold tube of metal and plas and become a vessel, a warship, with a name and a crew—perhaps even a soul.

"I name this ship _Juna Riif!"_ she bellowed in reply, and in one powerful swing shattered Hevaq's best bottle of brandy on the corvette's nose. It was done; her veins pumped with exultant fire. She felt alive! More now than ever before. Hevaq broke protocol to clap her on the shoulder, and she returned the gesture with a wild grin.

The naming went on down the List: _Grandis Liir, Teigor Somtaaw, Siima Manaan, Arban Hraal, Nupa Kaalel, Harnat S'Jet,_ and finally _Pravi Ferriil._ Mera thought it strange that not one of their ships bore the name of a Sobani—but corvette names were not selected along the lines of Kiith affiliation. As the first corvettes had flown for a united Kushan Fleet, so each ship was named for a different figure from history—the heroes, scientists, and pioneers who had built a future for _all_ Kushan.

"There is but one name that remains to be given," intoned the Captain, "and it belongs to us all." This was it—the Naming of the Squadron. Just as the ships' names were chosen by their commanders, so too was the squadron's name chosen by its commander. "In the Desert Times," he said solemnly, "Kiith Soban dispatched mercenaries throughout the World. There was one company in those days renowned for its skill and determination, requested by name to defend convoys of sand-sailers as they crossed the endless expanse of the Great Desert. Not in their storied history did they falter or fail; their name has endured even through the Fires of Devastation to reach our time. It is theirs that I claim for our own—their noble legacy to bear us through the darkness of the Void."

The Captain wrote a single word at the bottom of the scroll and returned it to the Master Chief with the same reverence as he'd accepted it.

"Master Chief, what is our name?"

"Sir! We are the _Stormbreakers!_ "

* * *

Mera took another deep swig of the '28 Radiir that had been her contribution to the Naming, wiped her mouth, and wagged her eyebrows across the table as she laid out her cards. Evidently her reputation had _not_ preceded her, which provided an irresistible opportunity to trounce her fellow officers before they learned better and refused to play with her anymore. Haraka, exec of the _Hevan Sagald_ , groaned and cast her head back when she read the faces in Mera's hand... a Totality, the third-highest possible combination. She'd been working on it all game, feinting and passing on a round here or there to let everyone _think_ she had a weak hand. Now she gleefully scraped a substantial pile of IOUs off the table and into her uniform cap.

"One more round? In case anyone wants to win back their _dignity_?" Now she was just rubbing it in. A chorus of muttered curses splashed a smile across Mera's face; she settled the cap containing her ill-gotten plunder atop her head, took a deep bow, and made her way across the lounge to where her crew had gathered.

On any other day, gambling and drinking while in uniform would have been a court-martial offense. Today, though, there were Captains and Admirals living it up with the officers and ratings in celebration of the 131st _Stormbreakers_. The station, critical as it was to naval operations, was blessed with a fairly robust recreational deck with all the comforts that the most highly polished brass might expect while visiting... though the facilities also saw use for ceremonies like the Naming of a new corvette squadron, or the return of a unit from deployment outsystem. Representatives from every major Kiith were present, although Sobani made up the bulk of the guest list.

Mera dutifully offered her bottle to Hevaq as she joined the crew of the _Juna Riif_ in the little alcove they'd claimed. Capital ship crews were normally segregated, with officers and enlisted personnel rarely interacting in their off-duty time, but corvette crews had a somewhat different way of doing things. In such a tiny hull, there wasn't room enough to stand on formality, nor to maintain any kind of professional distance between superior and subordinate. The officers and crew shared meals, rivalries, and friendships, as though they were peers. Thus, when Hevaq had sampled the wine, he passed it right along to Alud, their engineer's mate, and the bottle quickly made its way to Bara, Telas, and finally their chief engineer, Nalgaj—who obviously wasn't a fan of the vintage, but said nothing as he handed it full-circle back to Mera.

"That could hardly have gone better," Hevaq said with a broad grin. "It took some doing to pull together, but we're set for it now—we'll have three weeks' shakedown now, and after that we'll deploy."

Nalgaj leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms over his broad chest, a thoughtful look on his whiskered face. "Any idea who we're hiring out to, skipper?"

"A few rumors, but that's it. My money's on either Kaalel or Manaan. They'll want us with a mobile carrier group so we'll be _seen_ —this is as much for publicity as it is performance."

Mera lifted the bottle again. "To putting on a good show," she quipped, and her shipmates raised their glasses in toast. She was sure that they would; simulator performance had been consistently excellent through several exercises now, and the crews were familiar enough with their ships' systems that shakedown time should be minimal... leaving ample time for some _hands-on_ training before the squadron deployed. Mera was looking forward to getting her hands on _Juna Riif's_ gunnery station for the first time. Hers were the first set of hands that would ever fire the little ship's guns.

She was still lost in gleeful anticipation when somebody tapped her on the shoulder. "Hello, Mera," said a sullen voice from over her shoulder. Her blood turned to ice. That was not a voice she'd ever expected to hear again—or wanted to. Her crewmates saw her expression darken and their conversation stopped cold; they turned to face the intruder as she did, and with about the same degree of warmth.

"Jorn," Mera said flatly, although she'd known who it was before she saw his face. She almost asked what he was doing here, but she knew the answer already; he'd come to see _her._ A civilian data analyst like him would have had no other reason to be in this part of the station. _Why? What kind of sick joke is this? Who even let him in here?_ It had to have been one of the Sjeti officers that were in attendance for the ceremony.

"Those colors suit you," he said with just a twinge of regret in his voice. _No,_ she thought. _I don't want your acceptance._ She simply nodded and made to leave. He took a sudden, giant step forward, half reaching out to stop her and halting in his tracks when he saw the venom in her glare. His hand fell back to his side.

"It's good to see you again," he said after a moment, managing half a lopsided grin as though he expected her to crack a smile and run into his arms like she always used to after seeing him again for the first time in months.

"Is that all you have to say?" she asked, incredulous. He gave a little shrug and sidled over to one of the viewports. Mera shook her head and joined him, but noticed that the crowd in the lounge had fallen silent and a semi-circle of her squadron-mates was forming around them—gathered by her own crew, no doubt.

"I'm sorry that I didn't—" She cut Jorn off with a chopping motion and got right up in his face.

"No! It's too late. You weren't there when it mattered; you wouldn't even answer my calls... my own _brother!_ But _now_ you have the guts to face me? Is that it?"

"I was in deep space for six months, Mera. If I could have..." he shrugged again, as if to say: _you understand... right?_ But she knew better than that. She'd had _ample_ time to find out exactly where her brother was while she cooled her heels in a cell awaiting trial, and the words 'deep' and 'space' were nowhere in the description. He'd been home, in Kelna, just outside Asaam Kiith'Sid. The whole time.

"Your flight didn't leave until a week after the trial, Jorn. I _checked_. You could have been there. You _chose_ not to be."

Jorn's expression underwent a sudden transformation, from apologetic to _afraid_. "Mera, you have to understand. What they were saying you did..."

"You didn't want to be seen with a _murderer,_ " she finished. Folding her arms across her chest. Oh, surely that was a reasonable concern... for a stranger. For _family_? The word for that was _betrayal._ He understood that much; the guilt was written all over his face. Jorn's mouth opened and closed a few times; when words failed him, he turned to face the stars and sighed.

"You never even thought to ask _me_ what happened," Mera observed dryly. That would have been her first instinct if _he_ had been the one in trouble. _What happened out there? Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?_ Any or all of those, she could have understood. Even _did you really do what they say you did?_ would have been understandable... but all she'd gotten back from him was silence. Until now.

"I know I should have. It was just—"

"You made your choice, and I've made mine."

He exploded: "But how could you... Mera, you _Denied_ the Kiith of Karan Sjet! Do you even realize what that means?" The fear was stronger now—Jorn's eyes were wide as plates, his cheeks, his jaw, his shoulders tense... there was something more than what he was telling her at work here. Something larger than his guilty conscience.

"If it meant anything worthwhile," she said simply, "then I would still be Sjet." She didn't much care who was behind this little reunion... it was too late for them, as well. If they were so concerned with her, then they should have shown that concern when her pilot tried to frame her for murder. The political implications were too far above her pay grade to be worth worrying about.

"I did my homework," Jorn said, lying through his teeth. Someone had coached him—she was certain of it now. "I know how rare the Denial is, Mera. You were the first one to invoke it against Kiith Sjet since before the Exodus! And all to cover your own—"

"Stop right there! Do you think I'd be standing here if there were _any_ doubt at all? Even a _hint_ of suspicion that I was guilty?" The Admiral had been very thorough. While the physical evidence for the case was minimal, everything from Mera's and her pilot's service records to their _dental_ records had been gone over in exacting detail by Sobani investigators before Pruetta had even _considered_ letting Hevaq sponsor her into the Grey Brotherhood. Every Sobani who had been present during the battle, or who had been with Mera in the 308th at Knarvon before that, swore up, down, and sideways that she couldn't have been at fault. Several officers and ratings from other Kiithid had refuted the _official_ investigation as well, and made statements supporting her. Evidently Jorn hadn't been paying attention.

"I... I don't know," he stammered at last. "How could I—how could _anyone_ know? You cut the trial off at the knees!"

"That wasn't a trial, Jorn, it was a _sacrifice_." For Salin's career, for the satisfaction of the Frerrn whose freighter crew he'd killed—it didn't really matter. What mattered was that they'd seen _her_ as expendable. "I wasn't important enough for anyone to fight for me... not even my own brother!"

It was one word too many for Jorn to bear. "I _have_ fought for you!" he screamed—then, almost a whisper: "I _did_ fight for you, Mera... A long time ago." A familiar numbing rush coursed through Mera's veins. She'd felt it before, at the trial, when Salin took the witness stand and swore on his oath as an officer that _she_ had fired the deadly shot, and not him. The feeling was nothing more nor less than cold, bitter rage.

"You have some nerve. Because you saved my life once, that makes us even? I can't expect you to stand for me because you completed your duty as family the day our parents died?" Jorn remained silent—his face had gone red. Mera knew she should leave it at that and walk away, but he'd gone too far bringing _that_ up. She grabbed her brother by the shoulders and made him look her in the eye.

"Listen close, Jorn, because I'm _never_ going to say this again: I am not your sister anymore. You have no claim to my blood, and I have no _use_ for your name. You betrayed me, just as surely as if you'd accused me yourself."

"And what about Mother's name? Father's?" Trying to trade on their dead parents to make her forgive him was low, even for how far he'd sunk in her eyes this past year. She shook her head and pushed him away.

"The dead care little for names," Mera said over her shoulder as she slowly walked away. "But _one_ of us still honors their memory." Then her _true_ brothers and sisters closed ranks around her and the man who she had once called family was lost, fading into the distance across a sea of grey-clad bodies.


End file.
